Somewhere between the chaste kiss Steve greets him with, the stroking of his hair as Tony falls asleep, and the comforting scent in the sheets and pillows that he wakes up to, Tony forgets his reasons for not moving in. Groggily he basks in the morning light through the windows and begins rationalizing why it would be okay, maybe even good, to move in: easy access to helicopter travel with the landing pad, more modern amenities than the mansion, a workshop already outfitted with his latest toys, on-site availability for the team's equipment repairs and upgrades, and having the team—a team nearby. Having friends nearby. Having Steve nearby to keep him in check and on his feet, on a metaphorical (and sometimes literal when they're feeling it) leash. Dad had Mom to balance him out, right? That's really the only example of a working, long-lasting relationship that Tony knows how to follow, but even then his parents didn't seem happy. Maybe that's the curse. Maybe Starks aren't meant to be happy. They're not built that way or something. Or maybe it was just when Tony was around that they—he can almost feel his mother's gentle hand on his knee cutting him off. She loved him. His father loved him, she would reassure. Steve—
Steve Rogers loves him. Tony Stark. What a wild thought. What sort of world decided Tony got to have this? Almost every morning since that night his waking thoughts have been about Steve loving him. Sometimes the thought rolls through him like the tide, soothing lest he wander too far into it; and sometimes it lands at his feet like a flash grenade. It stupefies him.
Nature inevitably calls. Tony shuffles out of bed. After he finishes his morning routine as best as he can, he journeys to the communal kitchen for coffee and chats with Natasha there. "I'm sure Steve would let you borrow something," she comments slyly about his rumpled t-shirt and pants, which he slept in and didn't care enough to change. He's a mess on the inside and he knows it. Steve knows it, too. This way his outside reflects that a little. Steve appreciates honesty, right? Tony fixes his hair, at least, because he's still vain.
By the time he faces down the hallway to Steve's office in his rumpled clothes, the comparison of a groom looking down the wedding aisle and getting cold feet hits him. That's what his reluctance boils down to: second thoughts. The fear of commitment. Of hurting someone he cares about again. Things are cyclical, after all—history repeats itself—you'll always fall back to your roots—destruction—you move here and it starts again—you'll pick up the suit like an addict with his needle—say goodbye to your relationship and this new team—you know what's coming for you all from without and within—you're a modern Cassandra and your Troy will be torn apart—
Tony forces himself to the open doorway of Steve's office. The hopeless lug is eating cheese cubes and same as the groom watching his partner walk up that aisle the simple sight of Steve eases the doubts. You're Tony Stark, he hears over the dark swarm. You break the mold, and you build it better. "Workin' hard or hardly workin'?" Tony chokes out.
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Steve Rogers loves him. Tony Stark. What a wild thought. What sort of world decided Tony got to have this? Almost every morning since that night his waking thoughts have been about Steve loving him. Sometimes the thought rolls through him like the tide, soothing lest he wander too far into it; and sometimes it lands at his feet like a flash grenade. It stupefies him.
Nature inevitably calls. Tony shuffles out of bed. After he finishes his morning routine as best as he can, he journeys to the communal kitchen for coffee and chats with Natasha there. "I'm sure Steve would let you borrow something," she comments slyly about his rumpled t-shirt and pants, which he slept in and didn't care enough to change. He's a mess on the inside and he knows it. Steve knows it, too. This way his outside reflects that a little. Steve appreciates honesty, right? Tony fixes his hair, at least, because he's still vain.
By the time he faces down the hallway to Steve's office in his rumpled clothes, the comparison of a groom looking down the wedding aisle and getting cold feet hits him. That's what his reluctance boils down to: second thoughts. The fear of commitment. Of hurting someone he cares about again. Things are cyclical, after all—history repeats itself—you'll always fall back to your roots—destruction—you move here and it starts again—you'll pick up the suit like an addict with his needle—say goodbye to your relationship and this new team—you know what's coming for you all from without and within—you're a modern Cassandra and your Troy will be torn apart—
Tony forces himself to the open doorway of Steve's office. The hopeless lug is eating cheese cubes and same as the groom watching his partner walk up that aisle the simple sight of Steve eases the doubts. You're Tony Stark, he hears over the dark swarm. You break the mold, and you build it better. "Workin' hard or hardly workin'?" Tony chokes out.